![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Heroes of the Squared Circle 53: True Selves
Title: True Selves
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Steph Brown, Cass Cain, Barara Gordon, Tim Drake, Alfred Pennyworth, Brainiac
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 2400
Summary: The Dark Knight confronts the Kryptonian; Bruce and Clark have a family dinner at the Manor.
Honestly, we’re probably more angry if someone’s not reading comic books than whether they’re gay or straight. --Brodus Clay, wrestler
Robin shook hands with El Dragón, the victor of a good match between two small and agile babyfaces, with lots of turns and fast moves. The crowd was ebullient with delight, caught up in the fun--until Brainiac and the Kryptonian appeared at the top of the ramp.
“Nothing personal, Robin,” shrilled Brainiac as the Kryptonian lumbered toward the ring. “But Mr. Harvey Dent paying me to make sure this Nightwing upstart doesn’t have an unfair advantage against him next week, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to be in traction by the end of the evening!”
“Nightwing doesn’t need my help to beat that slimy Two-Face,” yelled Robin as he and El Dragón stood side by side in the ring, ready for a fight.
Brainiac shrugged and the Kryptonian continued to advance, inexorable as a solar storm. Clark could hear children shrieking around him, worried for Robin’s safety.
And then familiar low, throbbing music hit--for the first time in far too long--and the crowd’s murmurs turned into a ripple of shock as the original Dark Knight made his way down through the crowd to the ring.
He sprang onto the apron just as the Kryptonian was pulling himself up by the ropes on the other side--and there they froze, staring at each other across the ring, their gazes locked. Robin and El Dragón cautiously edged out of the way, leaving the two mysterious figures confronting each other.
The Dark Knight held out his hand as if he wasn’t sure whether he was imploring or offering assistance. Then he spoke for the first time since his terrible injury, in a voice that carried to the furthest corners of the arena: “Kal-El.”
None but Brainiac had ever called the Kryptonian by his name, and Brainiac had never said it with such passion, such entreaty. “Kal-El!” he said again. “This is not who you truly are!”
An inchoate shriek of rage from Brainiac, who brandished his red crystal rod; the Kryptonian clutched once more at his forehead, as if in pain.
“I’ve searched the world for answers, Kal-El!” cried the Dark Knight. “And in the Arctic, far from here, I found the key to your true identity. This is not your true self, Kal-El! This charlatan--” He pointed to Brainiac, who was hopping from foot to foot in a fury, “--this mountebank, this sham has robbed you of your proud heritage, of your memory! Kal-El, I beg you, remember the hero you were meant to be.”
The Kryptonian was gazing at the Dark Knight with his head slightly to the side, as if hearing something familiar but far away; he lifted a hand from the ropes and for a moment it seemed that he was going to reach out across the ring to his former enemy. But then Brainiac yelled something in an alien language, shaking his crystal rod wildly, and the Kryptonian’s face went blank again.
“Attack him!” cried Brainiac, but the Kryptonian turned and walked away from the ring, his eyes fixed on nothing, ignoring Brainiac’s commands. The Dark Knight nodded to Red Robin and El Dragón, then turned and left once more through the audience, black cape swirling behind him, leaving the audience buzzing: what did it mean?
Clark had one scarlet contact out when Jiro Osamu came up to him, holding out his phone. “You are going to dinner with Mr. Wayne tomorrow?” he asked. “I looked up the address Mr. Wayne gave us, but Duela says this cannot be right.”
Clark glanced at the phone’s map and stifled a sigh. Of course Bruce would just give them the address with no explanation. “No,” he said, “Tell her that’s right. Tell her--well, I’m sure Bruce will explain everything tomorrow.”
Jiro, whose knowledge of Gotham geography was less than Duela Dent’s, shrugged and wandered off, leaving Clark shaking his head at the mirror.
“Great job tonight.” Bruce appeared in the mirror behind him. “You really sold that internal tension.”
Clark scowled at his own face in the mirror, one eye still a baleful red, skin a dead gray, dark circles under his eyes. “I’m so sick and tired of hearing kids screaming in terror when I come out.”
“I know.” Bruce picked up a damp towel and rubbed gently at Clark’s face, removing the chalky makeup, revealing the true face beneath. “But soon enough everyone will see you for what you really are: a lionheart, a paladin, a champion of the good.” The towel was a warm caress, Bruce’s voice a love song at his ear. “My hero.”
”Holy--” Steph Brown broke off as she stepped into the foyer, staring around her at the stained glass, the marble, the gold and crystal chandelier. Beside her, Cass looked like she wanted to drop into a defensive crouch and was resisting only because it would be rude. “He’s...he’s really him.”
“He is indeed ‘really him,’ Miss Stephanie, Miss Cassandra,” said Alfred with a polite nod. “May I take your coats?” This was the seventh or eighth time he’d met a small group of shocked young wrestlers at the door and fielded their first reactions, but he sounded just as blandly polite as ever.
“You know our names,” said Steph.
“Master Bruce speaks quite highly of you,” Alfred said. “And I often watch your matches on television.”
“‘Master Bruce,’” said Steph, her voice choked with hilarity. ”Master Bruce!” She whirled on Clark, pointing accusingly. “You knew!” she said. “And you kept it secret!”
“It wasn’t my secret to give,” said Clark with a shrug.
“Understood,” said Cass with her usual abruptness. She turned and nodded to Alfred. “Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” said Alfred with a smile. “Now, if you do not mind, Mister Kent will show you to the drawing room, where Master Bruce awaits your company.”
When Clark came back from showing the two women to the drawing room (Steph tripped over the rug twice because she was staring around in amazement), Alfred was polishing an invisible smudge from the shining mirror in the foyer. “Well, said Clark, “that’s Barbara, Jiro, Duela, Bilal, Luke, Harper, Tim, Jason, Bette, Helena, Steph, and Cass. All settled in, and currently in various stages of annoyed, amused, and amazed. Bruce is fielding questions.”
“Just one person missing,” said Alfred.
The sound of a motorcycle outside the door made Clark smile. “And here he is.”
Alfred opened the door to find Dick Grayson standing on the threshold, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses. He grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You must be Alfred,” he said. “Bruce talked about you a lot.”
“Master Bruce has had much to say about you as well, Richard,” said Alfred.
There was a small pause, and then Dick stepped forward and flung his arms around Alfred. “I’m glad to finally meet the man he calls his father,” Dick said.
Alfred closed his eyes and held Dick close for a moment. Then Dick pushed away, looking around the hall with a low whistle. “Wowzers,” he said.
“You don’t seem as surprised as the others,” said Clark as they walked down the hall to the drawing room.
“He never told me--not in so many words,” said Dick. “But I had a feeling. He--he knew too much about grief, when he took a little boy with no parents under his wings.” He reached out and squeezed Clark’s arm. “Clark, before we meet up with the others, I just want you to know--you and Bruce, you’ve been the best mentors. I owe it all to the two of you.”
Clark stopped and looked at him. “I didn’t do much,” he said, embarrassed. “Bruce is the one who stepped in and mentored you, took you to Japan, all that.”
“My parents taught me the showmanship. Bruce taught me the moves, the technical side. But you taught me--” Dick broke off and shook his head. “You taught me about backstage leadership, about creating the right environment for the whole promotion.” He frowned and tightened his grip on Clark’s arm. “Why haven’t you ever held the belt, man? You’re the locker-room leader. You deserve it.”
Clark shrugged and kept his voice light. “Country Clark was a terrible choice to hold the strap. And I wouldn’t have wanted it as the Kryptonian anyway. It’s just not my time yet.” Dick looked unconvinced, but Clark was never going to breathe a word of the real reason to him. He still remembered the look on Luthor’s face when Clark had told him, calm and flat and certain: “You’re afraid you’ll be held responsible for John and Mary Grayson’s deaths. And more--you’re afraid you are responsible for their deaths.”
For a brief glimpse, Luthor’s face had been desolate, haunted, and Clark had known his words were true.
He had also known in that instant that Lex Luthor would never forgive him for being right, for seeing his pain and making it real.
So he just smiled and said “I don’t need it anyway. It’s not what I’m wrestling for.”
Dick frowned, started to say something--but they were at the drawing room door, and Clark could hear the murmuring of the other wrestlers’ voices beyond as he swung it open, stopping the conversation.
“Dick.” Bruce came over and shook his hand, clasping his forearm warmly. “Welcome to my house.”
“He didn’t even tell you?” Jason Todd was leaning against the marble mantle, rolling his eyes. “What a wiener.”
“Articulate as always, Jason,” said Bruce as laughter skittered through the room. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Alfred Pennyworth, the man who raised me after the death of my parents.”
Alfred bowed from the doorway. “May I just say that it’s a pleasure to have you here,” he said. “And to hear happy voices in a house that has often been sad and silent.” He gave Bruce an opaque glance: slightly reproachful, slightly sympathetic. “Master Bruce has spoken warmly of all of you, and sees you all as the future of the business. This house is always open to you.”
“Speaking of which,” Bruce said. “Let me show you something.”
He led the little troupe of students down the hall, padding along the thick Persian rugs and gaping at the Greek statuary, and opened a door to reveal a stairway winding downward.
Tim whistled sharply in awe as they reached the bottom of the stairs, looking at the gleaming modern workout facility, the high-tech equipment, and the shiny wrestling ring set up in the middle. “You’ve got a better gym than the official DCW facilities...in your basement?”
“With four cameras,” Luke Fox said, looking at the setup.
“Six,” said Jason quietly. “And they’re all HD.”
“Seven,” said Bruce from the base of the stairs, smiling. “And they’re 4K, actually. Need to be able to see what a move looks like from all possible angles.”
“Look at this editing equipment,” Barbara said, touching the keyboards reverently.
“And what, one folding chair?” said Duela, pointing at it.
“Alfred comes down and watches sometimes,” Bruce said, shrugging. “I’ve never really needed to provide for more of an audience.”
“Until now,” said Dick.
“Until now,” agreed Bruce.
Steph, Harper and Cass had already climbed into the ring and were testing the ropes, stamping at the mat. “Wow,” said Harper. “This is unreal.”
“You’re welcome to come here and work out anytime you’re in Gotham,” said Bruce.
Cass did a quick handspring and came up smiling. “Nice.”
“I think Alfred has dinner ready in the Rose Room,” said Bruce, “If you’re hungry.”
Jason and Tim raced each other up the stairs, whooping, and only realized at the top they had no idea where the dining room was.
The Rose Room was big enough to seat all fourteen dinner guests at one long table, and was already laden with food. Bruce took Clark’s arm and steered him toward the head of the table, where two chairs were set up. “Everyone,” he said quietly, “Clark and I are pleased to have you here.”
It was that simple, really. Clark saw a variety of expressions on peoples’ faces, ranging from I-knew-it to huh-okay. And then Jiro and Luke started arguing about workout routines and Helena started teasing Dick about something, and the dinner went on as if they were all, somehow, family.
As Alfred brought in dessert--baked Alaska for all, its meringue brown and crispy over strawberry ice cream--but just as everyone was lifting their spoons, Dick tapped his on a glass and stood up.
"Oh, come on," complained Jason. "You think I get to eat stuff like this every day? And you're gonna let it melt while you yak, huh."
"Shut up, Jason," said Dick good-naturedly, and Jason subsided with a grumbling grin. "I just want you guys to be the first to know that Luthor called me into his office today and told me I'd be going over Dent to be the new champion next week." There were cheers and applause all around the table. "And I wanted you all to know I couldn't have done it without all of you--that means you too, Todd," he said, and Jason actually blushed and looked down at the table. "I'll try to be a good champion for the time given to me, and I hope I do you all proud."
Bruce stood up. "I think I speak for all of us when I say--you already have," he said, and hugged Dick hard as everyone applauded and wiped their eyes..
"Can we eat now?" Jason groused, and everyone laughed and set to work demolishing their baked Alaska, teasing and chattering like any other family.
As Alfred passed behind the table, he stopped and briefly laid a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing once, and Bruce ducked his head and smiled at him, his heart in his eyes for a moment.
Family.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Steph Brown, Cass Cain, Barara Gordon, Tim Drake, Alfred Pennyworth, Brainiac
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 2400
Summary: The Dark Knight confronts the Kryptonian; Bruce and Clark have a family dinner at the Manor.
Honestly, we’re probably more angry if someone’s not reading comic books than whether they’re gay or straight. --Brodus Clay, wrestler
Robin shook hands with El Dragón, the victor of a good match between two small and agile babyfaces, with lots of turns and fast moves. The crowd was ebullient with delight, caught up in the fun--until Brainiac and the Kryptonian appeared at the top of the ramp.
“Nothing personal, Robin,” shrilled Brainiac as the Kryptonian lumbered toward the ring. “But Mr. Harvey Dent paying me to make sure this Nightwing upstart doesn’t have an unfair advantage against him next week, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to be in traction by the end of the evening!”
“Nightwing doesn’t need my help to beat that slimy Two-Face,” yelled Robin as he and El Dragón stood side by side in the ring, ready for a fight.
Brainiac shrugged and the Kryptonian continued to advance, inexorable as a solar storm. Clark could hear children shrieking around him, worried for Robin’s safety.
And then familiar low, throbbing music hit--for the first time in far too long--and the crowd’s murmurs turned into a ripple of shock as the original Dark Knight made his way down through the crowd to the ring.
He sprang onto the apron just as the Kryptonian was pulling himself up by the ropes on the other side--and there they froze, staring at each other across the ring, their gazes locked. Robin and El Dragón cautiously edged out of the way, leaving the two mysterious figures confronting each other.
The Dark Knight held out his hand as if he wasn’t sure whether he was imploring or offering assistance. Then he spoke for the first time since his terrible injury, in a voice that carried to the furthest corners of the arena: “Kal-El.”
None but Brainiac had ever called the Kryptonian by his name, and Brainiac had never said it with such passion, such entreaty. “Kal-El!” he said again. “This is not who you truly are!”
An inchoate shriek of rage from Brainiac, who brandished his red crystal rod; the Kryptonian clutched once more at his forehead, as if in pain.
“I’ve searched the world for answers, Kal-El!” cried the Dark Knight. “And in the Arctic, far from here, I found the key to your true identity. This is not your true self, Kal-El! This charlatan--” He pointed to Brainiac, who was hopping from foot to foot in a fury, “--this mountebank, this sham has robbed you of your proud heritage, of your memory! Kal-El, I beg you, remember the hero you were meant to be.”
The Kryptonian was gazing at the Dark Knight with his head slightly to the side, as if hearing something familiar but far away; he lifted a hand from the ropes and for a moment it seemed that he was going to reach out across the ring to his former enemy. But then Brainiac yelled something in an alien language, shaking his crystal rod wildly, and the Kryptonian’s face went blank again.
“Attack him!” cried Brainiac, but the Kryptonian turned and walked away from the ring, his eyes fixed on nothing, ignoring Brainiac’s commands. The Dark Knight nodded to Red Robin and El Dragón, then turned and left once more through the audience, black cape swirling behind him, leaving the audience buzzing: what did it mean?
Clark had one scarlet contact out when Jiro Osamu came up to him, holding out his phone. “You are going to dinner with Mr. Wayne tomorrow?” he asked. “I looked up the address Mr. Wayne gave us, but Duela says this cannot be right.”
Clark glanced at the phone’s map and stifled a sigh. Of course Bruce would just give them the address with no explanation. “No,” he said, “Tell her that’s right. Tell her--well, I’m sure Bruce will explain everything tomorrow.”
Jiro, whose knowledge of Gotham geography was less than Duela Dent’s, shrugged and wandered off, leaving Clark shaking his head at the mirror.
“Great job tonight.” Bruce appeared in the mirror behind him. “You really sold that internal tension.”
Clark scowled at his own face in the mirror, one eye still a baleful red, skin a dead gray, dark circles under his eyes. “I’m so sick and tired of hearing kids screaming in terror when I come out.”
“I know.” Bruce picked up a damp towel and rubbed gently at Clark’s face, removing the chalky makeup, revealing the true face beneath. “But soon enough everyone will see you for what you really are: a lionheart, a paladin, a champion of the good.” The towel was a warm caress, Bruce’s voice a love song at his ear. “My hero.”
”Holy--” Steph Brown broke off as she stepped into the foyer, staring around her at the stained glass, the marble, the gold and crystal chandelier. Beside her, Cass looked like she wanted to drop into a defensive crouch and was resisting only because it would be rude. “He’s...he’s really him.”
“He is indeed ‘really him,’ Miss Stephanie, Miss Cassandra,” said Alfred with a polite nod. “May I take your coats?” This was the seventh or eighth time he’d met a small group of shocked young wrestlers at the door and fielded their first reactions, but he sounded just as blandly polite as ever.
“You know our names,” said Steph.
“Master Bruce speaks quite highly of you,” Alfred said. “And I often watch your matches on television.”
“‘Master Bruce,’” said Steph, her voice choked with hilarity. ”Master Bruce!” She whirled on Clark, pointing accusingly. “You knew!” she said. “And you kept it secret!”
“It wasn’t my secret to give,” said Clark with a shrug.
“Understood,” said Cass with her usual abruptness. She turned and nodded to Alfred. “Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” said Alfred with a smile. “Now, if you do not mind, Mister Kent will show you to the drawing room, where Master Bruce awaits your company.”
When Clark came back from showing the two women to the drawing room (Steph tripped over the rug twice because she was staring around in amazement), Alfred was polishing an invisible smudge from the shining mirror in the foyer. “Well, said Clark, “that’s Barbara, Jiro, Duela, Bilal, Luke, Harper, Tim, Jason, Bette, Helena, Steph, and Cass. All settled in, and currently in various stages of annoyed, amused, and amazed. Bruce is fielding questions.”
“Just one person missing,” said Alfred.
The sound of a motorcycle outside the door made Clark smile. “And here he is.”
Alfred opened the door to find Dick Grayson standing on the threshold, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses. He grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You must be Alfred,” he said. “Bruce talked about you a lot.”
“Master Bruce has had much to say about you as well, Richard,” said Alfred.
There was a small pause, and then Dick stepped forward and flung his arms around Alfred. “I’m glad to finally meet the man he calls his father,” Dick said.
Alfred closed his eyes and held Dick close for a moment. Then Dick pushed away, looking around the hall with a low whistle. “Wowzers,” he said.
“You don’t seem as surprised as the others,” said Clark as they walked down the hall to the drawing room.
“He never told me--not in so many words,” said Dick. “But I had a feeling. He--he knew too much about grief, when he took a little boy with no parents under his wings.” He reached out and squeezed Clark’s arm. “Clark, before we meet up with the others, I just want you to know--you and Bruce, you’ve been the best mentors. I owe it all to the two of you.”
Clark stopped and looked at him. “I didn’t do much,” he said, embarrassed. “Bruce is the one who stepped in and mentored you, took you to Japan, all that.”
“My parents taught me the showmanship. Bruce taught me the moves, the technical side. But you taught me--” Dick broke off and shook his head. “You taught me about backstage leadership, about creating the right environment for the whole promotion.” He frowned and tightened his grip on Clark’s arm. “Why haven’t you ever held the belt, man? You’re the locker-room leader. You deserve it.”
Clark shrugged and kept his voice light. “Country Clark was a terrible choice to hold the strap. And I wouldn’t have wanted it as the Kryptonian anyway. It’s just not my time yet.” Dick looked unconvinced, but Clark was never going to breathe a word of the real reason to him. He still remembered the look on Luthor’s face when Clark had told him, calm and flat and certain: “You’re afraid you’ll be held responsible for John and Mary Grayson’s deaths. And more--you’re afraid you are responsible for their deaths.”
For a brief glimpse, Luthor’s face had been desolate, haunted, and Clark had known his words were true.
He had also known in that instant that Lex Luthor would never forgive him for being right, for seeing his pain and making it real.
So he just smiled and said “I don’t need it anyway. It’s not what I’m wrestling for.”
Dick frowned, started to say something--but they were at the drawing room door, and Clark could hear the murmuring of the other wrestlers’ voices beyond as he swung it open, stopping the conversation.
“Dick.” Bruce came over and shook his hand, clasping his forearm warmly. “Welcome to my house.”
“He didn’t even tell you?” Jason Todd was leaning against the marble mantle, rolling his eyes. “What a wiener.”
“Articulate as always, Jason,” said Bruce as laughter skittered through the room. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Alfred Pennyworth, the man who raised me after the death of my parents.”
Alfred bowed from the doorway. “May I just say that it’s a pleasure to have you here,” he said. “And to hear happy voices in a house that has often been sad and silent.” He gave Bruce an opaque glance: slightly reproachful, slightly sympathetic. “Master Bruce has spoken warmly of all of you, and sees you all as the future of the business. This house is always open to you.”
“Speaking of which,” Bruce said. “Let me show you something.”
He led the little troupe of students down the hall, padding along the thick Persian rugs and gaping at the Greek statuary, and opened a door to reveal a stairway winding downward.
Tim whistled sharply in awe as they reached the bottom of the stairs, looking at the gleaming modern workout facility, the high-tech equipment, and the shiny wrestling ring set up in the middle. “You’ve got a better gym than the official DCW facilities...in your basement?”
“With four cameras,” Luke Fox said, looking at the setup.
“Six,” said Jason quietly. “And they’re all HD.”
“Seven,” said Bruce from the base of the stairs, smiling. “And they’re 4K, actually. Need to be able to see what a move looks like from all possible angles.”
“Look at this editing equipment,” Barbara said, touching the keyboards reverently.
“And what, one folding chair?” said Duela, pointing at it.
“Alfred comes down and watches sometimes,” Bruce said, shrugging. “I’ve never really needed to provide for more of an audience.”
“Until now,” said Dick.
“Until now,” agreed Bruce.
Steph, Harper and Cass had already climbed into the ring and were testing the ropes, stamping at the mat. “Wow,” said Harper. “This is unreal.”
“You’re welcome to come here and work out anytime you’re in Gotham,” said Bruce.
Cass did a quick handspring and came up smiling. “Nice.”
“I think Alfred has dinner ready in the Rose Room,” said Bruce, “If you’re hungry.”
Jason and Tim raced each other up the stairs, whooping, and only realized at the top they had no idea where the dining room was.
The Rose Room was big enough to seat all fourteen dinner guests at one long table, and was already laden with food. Bruce took Clark’s arm and steered him toward the head of the table, where two chairs were set up. “Everyone,” he said quietly, “Clark and I are pleased to have you here.”
It was that simple, really. Clark saw a variety of expressions on peoples’ faces, ranging from I-knew-it to huh-okay. And then Jiro and Luke started arguing about workout routines and Helena started teasing Dick about something, and the dinner went on as if they were all, somehow, family.
As Alfred brought in dessert--baked Alaska for all, its meringue brown and crispy over strawberry ice cream--but just as everyone was lifting their spoons, Dick tapped his on a glass and stood up.
"Oh, come on," complained Jason. "You think I get to eat stuff like this every day? And you're gonna let it melt while you yak, huh."
"Shut up, Jason," said Dick good-naturedly, and Jason subsided with a grumbling grin. "I just want you guys to be the first to know that Luthor called me into his office today and told me I'd be going over Dent to be the new champion next week." There were cheers and applause all around the table. "And I wanted you all to know I couldn't have done it without all of you--that means you too, Todd," he said, and Jason actually blushed and looked down at the table. "I'll try to be a good champion for the time given to me, and I hope I do you all proud."
Bruce stood up. "I think I speak for all of us when I say--you already have," he said, and hugged Dick hard as everyone applauded and wiped their eyes..
"Can we eat now?" Jason groused, and everyone laughed and set to work demolishing their baked Alaska, teasing and chattering like any other family.
As Alfred passed behind the table, he stopped and briefly laid a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing once, and Bruce ducked his head and smiled at him, his heart in his eyes for a moment.
Family.